No Longer Their Man
by OhSoDeadly
Summary: He said there was nothing left to see. Now on the run from the beleaguered Alliance and sporting a new identity, the former Operative of Parliament attempts to carve a new life for himself in the 'Verse, but learns that some sins are unforgivable...
1. Chapter 1

It was the sound of the ship's intercom that woke him up.

Strange, that. He had never been one to be woken up by incidental, even trivial noises. A light sleeper, undoubtedly, but that had been natural-long, long before..._all that. Guai, _he had once slept while a cruiser he was on navigated its way through an asteroid belt near Jiangyin. And by navigate, he meant blast the tumbling rocks with repeater cannons until a path was cleared, a process with no short amount of noise. Yet here he was, being woken up by something as prosaic as a fizzle and a crackle.

Well, things hadn't exactly been ordinary. Not since the Miranda broadwave. Not since his faith had shattered utterly and he was cast adrift into the 'Verse, with nothing to call his own but what he had stowed in his onboard locker. He always did like to begin the day with cheerful thoughts. Though, technically, there was no day. Just the black.

The sound of the captain's voice came over the intercom, fuzzy due to poor wiring and made even worse by his addiction to pahn xu leaf. He would recommend an immediate withdrawal and a check-in at the nearest Alliance medical facility, but the captain was a stubborn man, and didn't belief in taking charity from the same _bei bi shiou ren_who had doomed an entire planet. He didn't exactly blame him. The same went for anyone who spurned their government in this new age. Whenever he tried to muster up the slightest bit of indignation, it felt like ashes in his mouth and he quickly buried it. Pulling himself away from these thoughts, he kept his eyes closed, but pricked up his ears.

"_Attention all passengers, this is Captain Demanski. We'll be touching down on Clearwater in 'bout thirty minutes, give or take a couple. Re-entry couplings are playin' up a mite but no cause for frettin', s'all natural. I'll be wantin' all of you outta your rooms in-"There_ was a brief bout of coughing, and he smiled briefly in amusement-_"no less'n ten. Make sure y'all take your belongings with ya, 'cause we ain't stayin' long. Over 'n' out." _A brief burp of static, then nothing.

Giving breath to a short sigh, he rose up from his uncomfortably stiff bunk bed and stretched his arms, almost hitting the ceiling. Accommodations aboard _Big Dipper _weren't exactly luxurious; then again, he was used to the martial style of the various Alliance cruisers he had toured on. This wasn't all that different, although the sanitary conditions left a lot to be desired. A few suspicious stains had made him forfeit the use of the spare blanket, despite the central heating failing time and again, leaving him wracked with cold.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he washed his face in the small sink next to his bed and then caught sight of himself in the mirror. No matter how many times he tried to avoid it, inevitably he would be drawn back to his own reflection. It was like a recurring nightmare.

Dark eyes, even darker skin. His usually neatly trimmed black hair now lank and unruly. A prominent nose, unusually defined cheekbones. Lips that might have once quirked into a smile, now continually set in a grim slash. To some, he had been an ally; to others an enemy, but all had feared him. Feared him in his former occupation as a ruthless Operative of Parliament. This was the face that had been the last thing for many in this life to see. Self-disgust and self-loathing had given way to a morbid kind of fascination with his image, of what others might see when they look at him…

A knocking on his door, and a soft voice. "Mr Dresden?"

The former government man stiffened. That was not, of course, his real name. That had been discarded, forcibly forgotten by dint of Alliance mind-wiping technology. But prior to his departure from Persephone, a certain ship's captain had given him the name of a deceased smuggler he had been acquainted with, along with the clothes he currently wore. Yet more mercy he knew he didn't deserve.

In a melodious and deep voice, he asked, "Yes, who is it?"

There were a few seconds of a silence, then the voice again. "It's Miss Randall, from C-Dorm. We met in the mess yesterday…" She trailed off. He thought back to the previous day, and nodded to himself. Courtney Randall, 26 years of age, hailing from the now dead colony of Haven. She must have left before he ordered the Alliance to wipe the place off the map. Working with decommissioning yards on the Border, she had shipped out here, hoping to start up her own business. Somewhat shy, but with a clear idea of what she wanted.

He hadn't lost his razor mind for detail.

Dresden raised his voice. "Yes, I remember you. What is it?"

If he didn't know better, he could've sworn she blushed. "Well…I was thinking, since we're both getting off here on Clearwater, we could look for accommodations together. Help each other out, ya know?"

He sighed. This was not what we wanted. He wanted to be anonymous, secretive and secure. Not mingling with every other person on this boat. But what could it hurt? "I suppose, "he said reluctantly.

"Great!" Her enthusiasm was evident, even through the steel door. "I'll see you when we hit dirt, then." The sounds of footsteps, which soon died away.

As the red light above his door dinged, he began collecting his meager possessions. A bag filled with clothes, amenities and a few other things-money, his ident-card and a long, leather-wrapped object, the last link to his former life. It wasn't something he wanted to flaunt-who went round wearing a sword these days? No, it was far safer and more common to wear _this. _From beneath his pillow, he grabbed his personal sidearm. Sleek and black, the Redmond E4CE Personal Defense Weapon had a long barrel and larger-than-normal iron sights. About the length of a Cortex-remote, it was occasionally hard to conceal, but was a good weapon in a pinch. Best of all-it relied upon bullets, and not sonics, EMP or stun rounds. A pragmatic mentality that he had come to appreciate. Holstering it on his right hip, he collected everything and left the room which had been his de facto home for three weeks now.

Entering the small sub-corridor which would connect to the ship's main passageway, he exchanged nods with the various other passengers that were exiting their rooms. One of them was Terence Paruto, a former Alliance SpecOps soldier that had left the ranks as soon as he heard the broadwave. A lot of them had done that of late. He and Paruto had established not a friendship, but a mutual understanding, and that was more than anything else he had aboard this ship.

Or not, He remembered Miss Randall's soft voice, her shy smile, brown eyes-

_Enough. _He caught Paruto's eye and nodded. "All well, Terence?"

The ex-soldier shrugged diffidently. "Same old same old, Dresden. Can't say being stuck aboard this floating rat-trap has done wonders for my disposition." He cleared his throat, and spat to one side.

Though he had yet to see any vermin on the _Big Dipper, _Dresden chose not to contest the point. "Indeed. Soon we'll make landfall. New opportunities await planetside, I am certain."

Paruto laughed grimly. "You think so? First time out to the Rim for you, I reckon. I served a tour or two of peacekeeping out here, and it ain't pretty. People can barely keep skin and bone together, scrapping over bits and pieces. You want opportunity, head back to the Core. Just ashes and dust what thrive out here."

Dresden was sourly amused by this. "So why have you come out here?"

Paruto snorted. "Hey, so long as I'm not back under the heel of the Alliance, I don't care where I end up. Got some cash to hand, a few old contacts. I'll make something of myself, you can be sure. What about you, then?"

The question caught him off guard. His mind raced-what exactly _did _he intend to do? "Find a job, and do it. That's what an old friend once told me." If Malcolm Reynolds could be considered a friend.

His current acquaintance grunted. "Well, good luck with that. Me, I'm burning my uniform ay-ess-ay-pee. You'd wanna do the same." He moved on ahead, rucksack on his shoulder. The corridors were starting to fill up now, with men, women and even a few children. Luckily he was taller and more broad-shouldered than them, so movement wasn't difficult.

There were certainly more people on board than he had given credit for-and in all shapes, sizes and colours. He spotted a few men that could have been his brothers, with their midnight skin. A small family struggled to stay ahead of the pack, toting larger suitcases than most. They must have moved wholesale from their previous home. One of the children, a small girl no older than three, stared up at him and smiled with pearly white teeth. She had her right hand clenched firmly in her mother's, but the other one she used to wave at him. He quickly returned her smile. It felt odd.

_Dead children lying sprawled in the dirt, bodies ridden with laser fire._

_Haven in flames._

He shook his head, and continued moving.

The main common room was packed, and many pushed eagerly towards the doors that led down to the hangar bay. Stern-faced crewmen guarded these vigilantly, using fierce glares to ward back the unruly crowd. On one side, however, was a small desk, and a place he needed to go.

There had been some small duties aboard the ship that required manpower or simple know-how. Most people didn't want them-cleaning and maintenance at best, the bilges at worst-but a small fee was given for series rendered. He had pulled no fewer than fourteen jobs voluntarily. He needed all the coin he could lay his hands on.

He moved up the line quickly, and when it was his turn, the gap-toothed young man behind the desk looked up with disinterest. "Name?"

Without the slightest tremor or quirk of speech, he said crisply, "Kalam Dresden." He handed over the ident-card, his face now in place of the late smuggler's.

The card went into the slot, and beeped as it returned a result. The crewman's eyebrows raised slightly-he probably hadn't been expecting a person who wasn't hired to have done so much work. "Alright then…..that comes out to about twelve platinum. There ya go." He sprinkled a handful of silver coins into his lined hands, and he felt the comforting weight of money. This would get him a room and a meal-of course that was by Border standards and here he was on the Rim. He turned to go.

A pugnacious looking man, standing in his way, sneered down at him-he was at least a head taller. "Why do you get so much?" he demanded in a nasally voice. "What've you done to become all moneyed-up?" He bunched his fists, and the liquor on his breath was evident.

Almost instinctually, Dresden found himself shifting into a fighting stance. But any confrontation would see his money confiscated and getting hauled up in front of the captain-and that he couldn't have. So he simply sidestepped the massive man, putting a large hover-trolley pulled by a puffing old man between them. Crisis averted.

The ship began to noticeably shake, and a few people cried out in shock. Dresden himself was unmoved-it was simply the effects of re-entry. Wedging himself between a pair of bulkheads, he grabbed a small handle designed for these situations and waited for the uncomfortable descent to finish. Everyone else scrambled to do the same.

After a few minutes, the captain's voice came over again. _"Demanski speaking. We've bulled through the atmo and commencin' descent into Karachi Station. All hands, start preppin' the hangar bay and let these folks off soon as we land. Over and out."_

With that, the guards placed on the doors began pulling the steel doors open, and ushering people through. Getting through the crush, he descended the winding steps leading down to the cavernous hangar bay. Doubling as the cargo hold, it had massive "drawers" that could be recessed into the walls of the ship, allowing for more human movement. This was the primary aim at this time.

A team of six men stood at the forefront of the doors, the first mate among them. A bearlike man named Selt, he began barking orders at the crowd, telling them to form several disciplined lines. Dresden and Paruto straggled their way into the third and middle one. Towards the front, he spotted a flash of chestnut hair. That was Miss Randall, he was sure of it.

The fluctuations began in his stomach as the artificial gravity started fluxing around with the real gravity, and he struggled to stay upright. The effect rippled across the bay, and a few bangs sounded as people's possessions hit the floor. But eventually, they stabilised. And in less than a minute, there was a cacophonous bang. They had landed. Crewmen dashed to open the cargo doors, while the passengers shifted impatiently. They wanted to get off this stifling, cramped ship.

The gargantuan doors groaned and shuddered, but slowly parted like the petals of a flower, and they saw real sunlight for the first time in weeks. The next thing they felt was the hot wind common to Clearwater, a wind that whipped across the length of the planet. Sometimes it rose into tornado fury, other times it was a mere breeze-but it was never entirely gone. Yet another atmospheric quirk caused by terraforming instability.

_At least this one won't kill thirty million people._

The lines of people began to move out onto the tarmac of Karachi Station Landing Pad K-2L. He was one of them, and he blinked in the harsh light, lifting a hand to shield himself. From here they would go to the customs office, and then wherever they pleased.

Dresden sighed. This was going to be a chore. Still, it would be bearable. He was just another passenger looking to make their fortune-

Then he saw it and he stopped cold.

Off across the sand-coloured expanse of Karachi Station, above the mudbrick and plastacrete buildings, there was another landing pad. And just touching down on it were several Alliance security sloops. The broadwave had meant the long arm of the law was not as feared as it once was, but they now had a tendency to pop up in unexpected places. Judging from their markings, these ones had pulled in from the Silverhold system.

One of the crewmen out on the pad was staring at him strangely. "Everythin' alright?"

Dresden jerked his gaze away, cursing inwardly. He couldn't give himself away now. "Yes, yes. I'm fine. It's just the heat." That at least was true-the sun was baking everything it touched.

The guard nodded understandingly, and motioned him onward. Dresden joined the snaking line of people moving down the slope towards the customs building, thinking furiously. It was a long shot, but if there was so much as one official aboard those sloops, then he would be compromised. He would have to blend in, be unobtrusive.

A thought occurred to him, and he smiled grimly. Parliament-sanctioned or no, he was still feared in many circles. Most men would know what he was capable of-and consequently not antagonise him. And if they did…a few judicious killings might not go amiss.

He didn't like it at all. But perhaps it was time to be an Operative again, if only for a short time.


	2. Aggressive Negotiations

The head of security at the Karachi Interplanetary Immigration Processing Centre was blessed with heavyset eyebrows, a shaved head and small, dull-eyes. Thin-lipped and pedantic, he was a man thoroughly bored with his job and gave no special attention to the mobs of arrivals slowly moving through the outpost, barely completing the minimum security checks. Occasionally, he turned violently paranoid, aggressively questioning the most innocuous of passengers. One family, consisting of a mother and three small boys, were led off to one side, to await further interrogation. The despair on their faces was plain for all to see.

Understandably, Kalam was nervous. On the face of it, the lawman was nothing special. To use Paruto's colourful vocabulary: _"Wouldn't give a streak o' piss for his royal presence any day." _But the former Operative, a master at reading people, could see his unpredictability. It would be his luck that he suffered extra-close attention upon processing. He thought furiously, trying to conjure a plan that would satisfy all possible outcomes. Obviously, a man of his striking complexion and disposition wouldn't be simply dismissed-he could be sure of that. So, intimidation it was then, mixed with a pinch of obfuscating belligerence. Or, as Reynolds would've called it, _talk thick, be clever._

"Next!"

Shouldering his travel bag, Kalam moved up to the bypass area, complete with laser scanners, a desk, security sensors and two armed attendants. Beyond that was a small lobby with seats, and the doors that led outside, into the hot, fierce world of Clearwater. _Freedom. _

The head of security's name-plate read RESNICK. He looked up briefly, pursed his lips into a scowl and listlessly consulted a flight manifest. His voice was raspy, a by-product of sucking down desert air for many years. "Name?"

The first impression had been completed. Now it was time to give the face a voice. Kalam opted for a loud, coarse voice, with a slight drawl. Not unlike the voice of the large, gruff mercenary employed upon _Serenity_, whom he'd met when effecting repairs to the ship on Persephone. "Kalam Dresden, sir. Y'all wanna explain the hold-up? Can't say waitin' in line's been all that exhilaratin'." The volume of his voice earned him a few bemused looks from people in line.

Resnick shrugged indifferently, not even meeting his eyes. "Just regular procedure, _puhn yo. _Occupation?"

Kalam snorted obnoxiously, as if the question was the stupidest utterance ever cast out into the air. "Ain't possessin' of one. All I got's some cash and a will to work. I'll see what I make of it." Seeing a slight flicker of suspicion cross the security guard's face, he switched onto a different tack. "But before I signed aboard _Big Dipper, _I was contracted for some security work under Milton Kanrus. You know him? Fancy shipping magnate. Wasn't there long. I got references." He fished through his inside pocket and passed over a wad of papers. They were, of course, fake.

Resnick grunted and, picking up a small data-reader shaped like a small tube, put it to his eye and perused the document. It must have satisfied any criteria he sought, because he passed it back without comment. "Reason for coming here?"

Spreading his arms extravagantly, the former Operative put on a sardonic smile. "Why, only to experience the purty tourist resort that this dustbowl is! If I can get some work in the meantime, all's the better. Can we hurry this up? I'm getting tired." He gave a theatrical yawn.

A scowl passed over Resnick's face. "Don't get lippy with me! Just give me your ident-card and we're done. I'll be glad to see the back of you." He stuck out a skinny hand, oddly pale for a native of Clearwater. It was the final test. Kalam reached into the pocket of his trousers (being careful not to brush the grip of the Redmond) and presented a small, silver card with a glowing red strip on one side. On the other was a small photo and some personal data. This was placed into a digital reader on Resnick's desk. The process would take a minute or two, depending on the volume of personal data on the ident-card.

The security man kept a blank look on his face, staring fixedly at the reader. Perhaps he was home free, but it was too late to switch tack: he had to maintain his persona as a loudmouthed buffoon. "So, what's with them sloops on the pads outside? Fixin' for a bust later on?" _It won't hurt to do a little fishing._

"None of your business."

This would not deter him-in any case, the digital reader was almost finished. Kalam gave a lazy smile. "Must be important, whatever it is. Silverhold's long way from here."

Resnick's head jerked up suddenly, paranoia flaring to life in his eyes. "How do you know where they've come from? Their deployment details are classified."

It was a mistake, a stupid amateur mistake, and he mentally screamed, raged, shrieked at himself, for letting down his guard. _Why? Why now? _He shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. "Reckernise the markings on the hull. Seen 'em a few times. No reason to get riled."

It didn't work, as the belligerent security chief shook his head vehemently, the tips of his ears bright red. "No! Impossible! Your papers say that you've never left the Jeltha system until now, and Silverhold is on the other side of the 'Verse! Move to the side. You will be taken to the processing station as soon as we-"

"I thought this was the processing station?" a thickset man behind Kalam piped up. "Am I in the wrong buildin'?"

"No! And shut up." A vein pulsed in Resnick's forehead, which was red as a beetroot. "Guards will escort you to the _interrogation rooms_ presently, and you will surrender all of your possessions-"

"Now hold up there." Kalam's eyes narrowed upon the nearest guard, who had moved forward with his hand going to his pulse pistol and a wary look in his eyes. It seemed there was going to be only one way out of this. "I know my rights. You can't detain what's mine until y'all got reasonable grounds for such an act. So what if I might know somethin' I ain't s'posed ta? Don't mean I'm smugglin' or nothing." He folded his arms firmly. "I'm stayin' right here. And don't try ta change my mind." His hand brushed against his gun suggestively.

Resnick looked as though he was about to burst with fury. He seemed the sort of man to get angry when things did not go according to the book. A flaw he could exploit. He jabbed a quivering finger at Kalam. "Seize him! Do it now!" The two guards moved forward, guns up.

_So be it._

As the first man tried to grab his arm, he snatched the offending wrist and wrenched it downward, resulting in a sharp _crack _and a scream of pain. A swift knee to the stomach and an elbow of his own to the man's back dropped to the floor gasping and wheezing. Gaping, the second guard pulled the trigger. A thin bolt of purple energy spat forth and raced towards him. Pulse bursts were slow, but they could immobilise someone for minutes, and that would spell disaster. He had no time to dodge it, so he did the next best thing. He slugged his fist at it.

When hitting mostly bone, pulse bursts lost much of their potency. Tendrils of electricity spread over his hand, and a wave of disorientation spread through his mind, but he remained focused upon the target, and his gun. Pulling out the Redmond, he flicked off the safety and fired three times. The massive bullets made a lion's roar in the enclosed space, and they thudded into the man's chest, tearing through flesh and bone. Making noises like a fish out of water, he dropped to the floor, a puddle of red spreading underneath him. The screams of the folk still waiting to be processed started very quickly. A few ran for the doors, others took cover behind objects, and others simply stared. They had no idea this loud, brash man could be so deadly. _And he hadn't even drawn his sword._

Striding back to the desk, fighting off the spots still swimming in his vision, Kalam leaned over and grabbed Resnick by the lapels. "So I think I'll be leaving then?" he hissed into the terrified clerk's face. All traces of his phoney accent had disappeared, and all that remained was cold, precise diction.

Resnick jerked a nod. "Y-you'll be found. They won't let you get away with this-"

Kalam drew his trembling face closer. "And what makes you think-"

_"What in the name of _suoyou de dou shidang_ is going on here?"_

Everyone turned, to see a trio of men enter the room through the doors leading outside. All of them were clad in the navy and grey fatigues of federal agents, designed for law enforcement. The one heading them had a cropped haircut, beady eyes and thick grey eyebrows. A small, silver nameplate read: LIEUTENANT WOMACK.

This man strode over to the desk, stepping over the pair of groaning guards. One of his subordinates, a Chinese man with a thin, pallid face and a nametag that said FENDRIS bent down and checked the man's pulse. He shook his head. "No good, sir. He ain't gonna make it."

"Toss him out then." There was not the slightest bit of sympathy in Womack's voice. "Get the other one to the medical bay." The second officer helped the first guard up and the pair limped out of the room. The first officer took the soon-to-be-deceased man by the legs and slowly pulled him towards the doors. _A good death? Hardly. Gunned down on account of some over-officious _ta me duh. _Foolishness is a fast catching disease._

The lieutenant appraised Kalam with shrewd eyes. "Now what's going on here? Firing a weapon on these premises is bad enough, but wounding two Feds ain't gonna do your situation much good. Better start explaining, quick smart."

Kalam scowled belligerently. This Womack looked tough, but he refused to back down. _What did he have left to lose? _He jabbed a thumb at the cowering Resnick. "Sonuvabitch was tryin' ta infringe on my rights. Warned him off plenty, but he wouldn't leave it alone. Had a right to defend myself, didn't I? Didn't intend for no-one to get killed."  
>"Maybe." The agent's piercing gaze flicked to Resnick. "And you. Trying to establish yourself as some sort of rent-a-cop? You leave that sort of thing to me, son. You process new folk, and any wrongdoings are left to me and mine. <em>Dong ma?"<em>

A trace of Resnick's former pique showed itself. "I've got a right to survey newcomers! Don't try and undermine my authority-"

Womack's fist slammed down next to Resnick's hand, an inch away. His voice was calm but the rage in his eyes was evident. A few nearby people cringed. "Perhaps you'd like to settle this with my superior? He's already having a _kuh wu _time trying to police the trafficking problem in this sector, and I'm sure he'd be delighted to deal with you. Come, we can go right now." The Fed made to escort Resnick out the door.

"No!" the official squeaked, all defiance gone. "You can have him! Do what you want." He ducked his head, lip trembling. Womack smiled sardonically. "Dandy. Now then-"

He turned suddenly to face Kalam, who tensed. This man was no fool. And unlike the two goons he'd just dropped, this one was full-cred Alliance. Anything that went wrong here would have dire ramifications. He stared him in the face coolly, which belied his inner anxiety. "Yeah?"

Womack pursed his lips for a moment. Then he said: "Suppose I would've done similar in your situation. You can go, no charges. But I will be collecting a fine for injury to customs officials, damage done to a government building and discharging a firearm on government premises. Fifteen platinum. Cough up."

He had gotten off lightly, all things considered. Yet, his blood boiled as he watched this smarmy _hun dan _take money from him, hard-earned money that could have supported him while he sorted out his affairs on Clearwater. Now he would have to draw from his only pool of cash, and that wasn't what he'd planned. But he had no choice. With a slight sigh, he withdrew the small pouch, and added a few more from his pocket to make the total.

Once Womack had finished counting it all up, he took a final, inquisitive look at Kalam's dark-skinned face. "You seem kinda familiar. We ever crossed paths?"

The former Operative stiffened. He had completed at least eight Parliament-sanctioned missions in the Silverhold system, dealing with an endemic organ-smuggling problem by a powerful criminal organisation. Occasionally he'd had Federal back-up. Womack could easily have been one of them. Now was not the time to reminisce, however. _Somehow I doubt we'll be swapping stories and laughing like old friends._

He gave an indifferent shrug, rolling his muscular shoulders. "Ain't never seen you before in my life." His tone was level, calm and collected. Nothing like the one he'd come in with. Before he'd nearly blown his cover and killed one man and badly wounded another. So much for a fresh start.

But in the end, the lieutenant grunted, and waved him on. Picking up his bag and other effects from the desk, where the near-catatonic Resnick sat as the line of people slowly re-formed, he made for the door, past the set of chairs where an ugly crimson stain was still on the floor. Where the escape to the outside world lay, away from here, where his past had nearly caught up with him. They parted with a slight creak, and the hot desert air billowed in, only to be swallowed up a moment later.

Back at the processing centre, Lieutenant Vincent Womack cast one last look at the tall, black man striding out of the room. A brash fellow, wearing clothes no different to any in the room, with documents that seemed perfectly legitimate...yet there was something about the man that nagged at him. Had he seen him before? Or was it just his memory playing tricks?

Of course, there was no shortage of memories to misapprehend. Federal Agent induction and training on Boros, his first case against Dust Devil revolutionaries, that bastard Reynolds and his dicey ways...he could remember 'em a hundred different ways. Perhaps this was more of the same. In any case, he made a brief note on his Cortex remote to find out more about this "Kalam Dresden"...and what he would do next.

**************************************************  
>As soon as he was free of that room and its unnatural cold, he let loose to his internal feelings, a vicious growl ripping loose from his throat and sweeping aside a row of clay pots placed on a small ledge with an arm. The sounds of them breaking helped assuage his anger, but only for a moment. It had not been a good landfall, and it didn't look as though things would improve.<p>

_I want to kill something._

Not healthy, perhaps, but right now he wasn't terribly interested in that sort of thinking. Stalking down the street marked as Jefferson, he passed the various market stalls and small concrete and wood dwellings that leaned against each other like decrepit hunchbacks lined up against a wall. Karachi was a peculiar sort of place, where everything was arranged in straight lines and right angles. For this reason, there were several main streets, each with their own purpose. Jefferson Street happened to be the mainstay of the town's economy, where most business was conducted and deals done. Not that that was saying much. Like most planets outside the Core, Clearwater was desperately poor and barely functioned as a habitable planet. Any sort of economy that existed only did so in name only. Despite this, the thoroughfare was jammed with traffic, some of it animal, some of it mechanical, but most of it human.

"Seedlings! Freshly arrived seedlings from NutriCorp!" a bespectacled man shouted from the darkened recesses of his own stall. "Won't find them better anywhere! Put 'em in the soil and they'll grow!" He waved a small bag with gusto. Most likely it was just a cheap knock-off of NutriCorp's gen-seed.

"Looking to build cheap? I'm your man! Scrap metal has never been cheaper, and I can provide plenty!" a man with a red beard hollered. Behind him, a rather large shed had been converted into a storage container, and all manner of twisted, barbed metal was inside. A passing glance told him that most of what was inside was junk for a reason.

_We're not here to rehabilitate the planet, _he firmly reminded himself. _We're here to make a life. _To that end, he would need lodgings for the night. From there, he would plan his next move. It was too much to hope that Womack would simply forget him; he wasn't that naive. Best to remain paranoid and assume that he would be watched. So, honest work would be his next priority. Or as honest as he could find on this dustbowl.

The omnipresent wind picked up suddenly, taking on a fierce edge. Some stalls collapsed wholesale as their flimsy supports buckled under the gale, eliciting cries of dismay from those within. Others had roofs torn off, carefully-stacked inventory upended and documents spiralling into the air. The street was awash with frantic shop-owners and their charges. It was extremely difficult to move. He was jammed between two men labouring under casks filled with something.

With ease born of long experience, a cacophony of angry yells and demands started up. _Because it is the blame that matters, not the solution. _Kalam found himself shoved in the back, poked with all manner of objects and even felt something small and round strike him on the cheek. Putting a hand up, he discovered it was a rotting onion. His anger steadily grew; he almost found himself yearning for the days when he could part a crowd simply by walking towards it. _Almost._

"Break it up you _fong luh _bastards! Break it up!" A squad of street police-known amongst the Clearwater natives as "Splitters"-emerged from an alleyway and began laying about with their stun batons and tasers. Once a few unruly crowd members dropped convulsing to the parched ground, most people chose one direction to go in, and the market hubbub resumed its usual course. Breathing a sigh of relief, Kalam made to go on his way.

Before he could, however, a cry of pain caused him to swing around. Past a knot of loudly chattering moisture farmers and a gargantuan man roaring at his sluggish troop of mules, he saw a slight figure sprawled on the ground, possessions scattered around it and clutching at its leg. Something made him turn back the way he'd come and go over to the person. Long brown hair confirmed his suspicions. It was none other than Courtney Randall.

He bent down on his haunches, shading his eyes from the sun with a hand. "Miss Randall? Are you alright?"

She jerked her head up suddenly, alarm in her eyes-then relief. "Mister Dresden! Am I glad to see you." A hand went to her right leg, which had a nasty bruise visible through the ripped cloth. "Just took a tumble beforehand, and hurt me leg-I think it's broken-"

"Let me see." He prodded the ugly purple mark with his other hand, ignoring Courtney's little winces of pain. "No fractures as far as I can see. It's just bruised. Can you walk?"

A half-hearted attempt, an ensuing cry of agony and a prompt fall back into the dusty turf answered that question. Sighing inwardly, Kalam offered her his arm. "It seems we'll be making this trip together. Do you know of a hostel nearby?" She nodded gingerly, pulling a small piece of card from a pocket in a well-worn jacket that still had traces of a fur lining on the inside. A few more things clinked inside it. Didn't she have the common sense to put valuables in a safer place, such as the inside of a sock or in a crevice in a boot? _Naive. I'd almost forgotten._

The hostel was two streets away, tucked away behind a rocky outcrop that had somehow been allowed to grown in the midst of Karachi. The rates were cheap, and it was located close to the wrecking yards that formed the basis of the town's authority. A place to stay, and a place to work, maybe. It would do for now. Rising up slowly, he helped Courtney to her feet. "Let's be off then. It's quite a ways."

"Poor liddle love! Woss' gotcher ankle in a twist, 'ey? Ill fortune indeed!"

The proprietor of the Unguent Inn was a rangy, grizzled man, with a flaking skin rash that covered one cheek. Apart from this rather unattractive facial marking, he seemed an affable man who was only too happy to have guests. As soon as Kalam and Miss Randall had limped through the door, looking like an unenthusiastic pair of competitors in a three-legged race, he was on them like flies on carrion meat.

Stepping through the splintered door, which might have once been oak but had numerous scratches and gouges in it from unruly visitors, Kalam helped the ailing girl onto one of the cushioned stools waiting inside. The blazing heat of the street outside was beaten back by the concerted efforts of the primitive electric fans creakily rotating upon the ceiling. Shouldering through with the last of their bags, the man gave them a gap-toothed grin. "So, 'ow long will yer be occupyin' my fine establishment?"

Kalam gazed around with a jaundiced eye. _Fine _was being perhaps a tad generous. The lobby was ridiculously small, with the front counter taking up most of the room, behind which was a small antechamber which doubled as an office. Immediately on the left was a small, winding staircase, which led to the second floor and the rooms therein. Off to the right was a small jumble of stools and a battered table, upon which were a few outdated magazines from the Core. Further off this way was a small path leading outside to what passed for a garden, which looked to be a small, sun-blasted courtyard with a garbage receptacle whose foul stench managed to waft inside. Still, it was better than the grim, blue-steel prison he'd endured for the past few weeks.

He moved up to the counter, reaching for his wallet. "A week or so. How much is a room?" A slight flash in the corner of his eye caused him to glance off to the right. A surv-cam was rotating slowly upon its axis. From the markings, it was one of the more reliable ones. He was slightly impressed; this place was better kept than he initially thought.

The owner pulled a large, dusty ledger from beneath the counter, thumping it onto the split and warped wood. Pulling the pages apart, he scanned the register. "Lemme see 'ere...we've got a few people already paid up to the end a' the month...but I reckern I can squeeze ya in. Will you and ya missus be wanting a single or a double?"

He momentarily choked, which was followed by a slight reddening of his cheeks. He didn't even think he was still capable of being embarrassed, after everything. A quick glance at Courtney revealed her cheeks blushing crimson. To avoid catastrophe, he cleared his throat. "She's not my...missus. We would like a room each, please." He said this last part firmly, so that his meaning was not unclear.

From the look on his face, the owner was unconvinced. "As ya say, guv. That will come to twenny plat'num. In 'ere, please." He shook a small strongbox upon the counter. It looked archaic, with simple iron strips and a lock, but a blinking red light on the side meant an internal alarm and maybe even a fail-safe eraser that would destroy the contents. Clearly, the folks around here took no chances with their hard-earned.

After the transaction was completed, the owner passed over a pair of brass keys. "I lock up at midnight, guv, so mind that ya don't be tardy. Streets ain't a place t'be, after hours." Giving both of them a grateful nod, he disappeared into the back office.

A strange feeling came over Kalam, and he was not sure what it was. Then after a few seconds it hit him. It was the first deal he'd made in-_how long?-_that hadn't involved violence, threats or anything untoward. Simple and fair. Rather than making him feel better, however, the thought depressed him. Shaking it off, he turned to Courtney. "Let's get you upstairs, "he said gruffly. He offered his arm again.

Climbing the stairs was difficult, what with her injured leg, yet they managed it. Proceeding down a narrow hallway with threadbare, maroon carpet underfoot, they stopped at a door with the number 6 on it. This would be Courtney's room. The one next to it, 7, would be his. Putting the key in, the door swung open.

The room was very plain, with a small bunk, a washbasin and a table complete with chair. A very small skylight allowed a shaft of sunlight, which was turning amber as the sun lowered itself towards the horizon. Soon the room would be untouched by the outside world.

Moving forward, he helped Courtney to settle onto the bunk bed, and then propped her leg up with the chair. She flashed another sunbeam of a smile at him. "I ain't never met a man as courteous as you, Mister Dresden. Can't thank you enough." She rustled through her luggage and found a small first-aid kit, as well as a handful of coins. "Here's your reimbursement."

His first instinct was to refuse, saying it was no problem and that he would never think of taking her money. However, his next had him reaching for the cash. A man couldn't be so foolish as to refuse what he was due, even though it was chivalrous to do so. "It was no trouble, I assure you." He tried to smile back at her, but couldn't quite manage it. He moved towards the door, but curiosity made him draw back. "What are your intentions upon this planet, Miss Randall?" He already knew. But he wanted to hear it from her.

The young woman frowned slightly, eyes rolling upward in a gesture of thinking. "Well, I finished my degree in engineering back on Paquin, got plenty of references. So I've come here to see an old friend, and to maybe even start up my own business." Here, her enthusiasm dimmed a bit. "Not a whole lot of cash, though. Might have to work some before I get on my feet."

Kalam barked a laugh. "As will I. I don't have much to hand, but..." He trailed off and sighed heavily. "This is better."

Courtney tilted her head quizzically. "Why's that? Rough place back where you came from? Sorry to hear that."

_Rough? Yes, I suppose you could say that. I suppose you could say that being the blunt instrument for a corrupt, self-serving government was rough. I suppose that being a slave to a belief that was a fucking lie was all kinds of rough. I should think so. Would rough include countless instances of murder, torture, wholesale slaughter and the destruction of entire colonies with all the compunction of a man swatting a fly? Why yes, I believe so. Life has been one long patch of...rough._

He didn't say that out loud. God knew, he wanted to. But the only effect all that internal _mi tian gohn _would have would be alienating Miss Randall. So instead, he shrugged, gave her a few final instructions on keeping her leg rested and left the room quietly.

Entering his own room just adjacent, he was greeted by a room not dissimilar to the one he'd just left, save for the fact the washbasin had some nasty looking stains on it. The bed reeked as well, no doubt from unsavoury habits. He would have to fix that somehow; if the management of this "fine establishment" would not help, then he would have to spend more money. And it would continue to pile up, and up, and up...

The sight of the room was suddenly repugnant to him; he could not bear to look at it. _This is what I have sunk to? _Resisting the urge to slam his fist into the doorframe, which would most likely crumple it, he deposited his belongings on the floor, locked the door and stalked back down the corridor. He had to get outside. Anywhere but here.

The manager looked up from polishing the counter as he went past. The dishcloth he was using looked as though it should have been retired long ago. "'eading out, then?" he asked. "Mind you take care, sir, ain't terribly courteous folk about. 'Specially not at this hour."

Ignoring the query, the former Operative walked out the door and back onto the street. The heat of the day was already dissipating, as the sun, now a fiery orb on the horizon, sank imperceptibly lower into sleep. The radiant white clouds turned dark and became ragged tatters in the sky. Desert birds soared through the air, uttering harsh cries to each other. The planet was settling into sleep.

Yet other parts of it-the human part, most specifically-was just beginning to stir. At the foot of an old lookout tower that had become obsolete long ago, a pair of old beggars shifted themselves, sending scraps of rubbish and paper through the air, slapping against the tangled metal struts of the tower. The two men quietly ambled away down a side-street, shedding their old sackcloth garments and checking their pockets for something. Kalam watched momentarily, impressed; clearly the men were some form of security. It was a testament to their professionalism that they had endured the entire day in the hot sun as part of their job.

Part of him wanted to follow them, just to see what they were up to. Curiosity had never been part of his job, yet it was a trait he'd cultivated nonetheless. Fine arts, literature, the works of old Earth-That-Was; he'd absorbed it all like a sponge, interested in knowledge for its own sake. But in a world where a wrong look could get you killed...

He tightened his jacket around him as a chilly breeze swept up the street, and walked back the way he had come earlier. When passing it he'd seen a small yet decent-looking bar, named _Broken Levee. _It must have been the product of irony, as there wasn't enough water near Karachi to fill up a pool. Only what was shipped in and recycled could be counted upon. The moisture farmers had it tough all year round. In any case, he fancied a drink. Or three.

Only a few others passed him on the way. Most of them were clad in the olive-and-green coats and baggy trousers that seemed to be the trademark amongst the citizens of Karachi. The sun and hot winds were fierce during the daytime, but covering up the skin mattered more-and now that it was evening, the air had a chill.

After a few minutes he pushed his way through the wicker door of the _Broken Levee_, which had once been a small two-storey tenement but had been converted some time ago. A large generator off to the right of the entrance thrummed, supplying heat and power. Standing in front of it was a man clutching a two-barrelled shotgun in his meaty hands, keeping a watchful eye. Without the generator, the bar would be hard-pressed to stay in business.

The interior was dark and smoky, but packed with customers. A large holo-pool table took up one side of the room, and a raucous game was already in progress. The actual bar faced all sides like a square, and was smack bang in the middle. Various tables and chairs were scattered about in a hotchpotch where no piece of furniture was the same. All the muttering, shouting and general speech blended together into a hubbub where no individual word could be identified. Kalam moved forward to the counter, pulling out his wallet. "One, please."

The barkeep, a man with a ridiculously curly set of muttonchops, glanced at him and then looked away. Thinking he hadn't heard him, the former Operative raised his voice. "Excuse me. I said I wanted one, please." He put emphasis on the _please._

This time, the man snorted derisively. "Fergit it. I don't serve your kind." He turned away, and began polishing a glass in that nonchalant matter.

Kalam could scarcely believe his ears. _My kind..._White-hot rage boiled up in him and with a fluid movement he grabbed the bigoted _sah gwa _by the lapels, near dragging him over the counter. A bottle dropped to the floor and shattered. All eyes turned to him. A few men tensed, hands going for their side-arms.

Conscious that his next words could begin or defuse a fight, he spoke calmly. "So I think I'll have that drink now, "he said aloud for everyone to hear. A few laughs were heard, and the bar resumed its usual white noise. The barkeep cast him one final glare and plonked a stubby beaker of sake next to him. A quick swill of this proved that it was no vintage wine from Londinium, but it quenched his thirst easily enough. He sat down upon the rickety stool and sighed, bowing his head slightly. It had been a long day.

A scraping noise, and someone else pulled up next to him on a stool. A dark-skinned man like himself, but definitely with more flesh on him, gave him a shiny grin. "Quite the spectacle. I'm surprised you decided to walk in here the first place. Most folk know that this charming saloon ain't a place for..." He looked down at his dusky arm and snorted. "You an' me."

Kalam chuckled. "So what brought you in here, if that's the case?" He took another mouthful and grimaced.

The man laughed appreciatively. "Tastes like cow dung, don't it? Well, I was passing through on my way to a business meeting and chanced to peek through the window. Saw you giving our barman friend here"-he nodded at the muttonchop man, who was studiously ignoring them-"his due. Was a tad interested, so I thought I'd come in and shake your hand." And with that he extended it. "Ken Willardson. At your service."

Now that he took a closer look, Kalam realised that Ken was wearing a somewhat shabby suit, complete with coat and tie. A small brown fedora crested his head, with a small blue feather stuck through the lining. He looked like a landowner on one of the Border planets-attempting to be gentrified, but never quite achieving it. Still, he looked a fair sight more reputable than most of the men here. And-his razor senses doing him a service yet again-he noticed a small derringer concealed in his sleeve, a faint lump betraying its presence. _Interesting._

He clasped the hand. "Kalam Dresden. Newly arrived to Clearwater, hence my ignorance."

Ken bobbed his head. "Then allow me to welcome you to our fair planet. Hope your stay is an enjoyable one." Suddenly he lowered his voice. "Say, would you be interested in a little work?"

The question was so unexpected he was momentarily confused. Then, he leaned forward, a small frown upon his face. "Elaborate, please, "he whispered. This could be the start of something. He decided to ask a question of his own. "Is it anything to do with your line of work?"

Ken licked his lips; a speculative gesture. "Well, might say that. Me, I'm a numbers man. An accountant, guess you might say. I run the facts and figures up, let my bosses know the whys, wherefores, how much it'll cost and how much they stand to gain." He shrugged slyly. "And that ain't even the main part."

There was a sudden undertone in his voice as he said this. He was deliberately keeping a secret. _Trying to reel me in with it. _"So, are you up for it?" Ken asked brightly. "Come with me right now and we can discuss it." He jabbed a thumb at the door.

Kalam was tempted. What he needed was work, something to see him through the difficult times-and heaven knew there were going to be plenty of those. But who knew what he was getting into? He had only just met this man...He could be anyone. A thought flashed across his mind. _He could be working for Womack!_

Feigning regret, he shook his head. "Thanks for the offer Ken, but I think I'll wait a while and see what else I can dig up. But is there any way I can reach you? Supposing I was interested." He took a casual swig from the beaker.

Ken's eyes had been downcast, but they lit up again instantly. "Here's what you do-"

"Willardson! You scummy piece of beaver shit!"

They both turned to see a man advancing on them from across the bar, pushing people out of his way. From the looks of things, he was drunk. And-as the man moved closer-Kalam realised who he was. The argumentative man from the ship, who had protested against his twelve platinum. Ironic, seeing as he no longer possessed it.

Ken swore under his breath. "Sweet Mary an' Joesph, just as things are lookin' good...Take this, and guard it with your life!" He pulled a small, paper-wrapped package from his inside pocket and pressed it into Kalam's hands. "Don't be letting everybody see that. I gotta go, 'fore things get ugly." He drained his own mug, and hastily straightened his hat. "Nice meeting you!" And with that he sailed out the door, almost colliding with a serving drone.

The drunken man finally reached the bar, and his small red eyes were thick with liquor and rage. "Where has that _guay toh guay nown _slithered off to?" he hissed into Kalam's face. "The sonuvabitch owes me thirty platinum. I held up my end of the deal fair and square and now he's shuttled off!" He kicked a bar stool in frustration, breaking it.

Kalam held up his hands. "He just left. If you leave now you can-"

"Aw, who do ya think you're trying to fool?" He gazed venomously at him, and spat. "Darkie bastard. Go crawl off into your hole and die." The man swung a fist at him.

Kalam neatly ducked the blow, and delivered a swift strike to his solar plexus, sending him staggering backwards. He followed this up with a kick to the shins and another blow to his head as the man doubled over in pain. To finish, he swiped Ken's mug and cracked it over the drunk's head, shattering it into pieces. He slumped to the ground, stunned.

_Call me that name again. Call me it again and I swear-_

At this point someone cracked a pool cue over his head, sending him to the floor with bursts of colour exploding through his vision. He became vaguely aware of someone standing over him, before that person went flying sideways.

A great clamour went up, and Kalam realised he had started a bar fight. Trying to shake off the blow to the head, he looked for an escape route. His fighting skills would be of little use here, where broken glass and pieces of wood were the order of the day. Not to mention anyone who pulled a gun.

A pair of men was in his path to the door, brawling and snarling as they tried to gain purchase on each other. He turned around, and nearly caught a broom to the face as the enraged barkeep swung viciously at him. "You dirty-"

Forming a shovel with his hand, he struck the man in the throat, which caused him to fall, making noises like a dying fish. _Had just about enough of you. _He vaulted over the counter, and quickly rifled through the money pot kept underneath the liquor store. It wouldn't hurt to gain a little something from this, other than a bruise.

Jumping back over, Kalam saw that the way to the door was more or less clear. He prepared to bull through the rioting crowd, when the drunk from before stepped into his path. A shiny purple bruise covered his head, and a pistol was aimed right at him. "Say goodnight, "he shrieked, and fired.

Kalam dived sideways, and ended up landing upon the pool table. The holo-surface fizzled and crackled, sending minor electric shocks through his system. Ignoring them, he rolled off and booted a man in the face as he drew a knife on him. Landing on his feet, he was about to draw the Redmond when a man with a thick moustache ran at him. There was no time to dodge.

They crashed to the floor, and Kalam cracked his head upon a discarded stool. Ignoring the pain, he grabbed the man by the neck and wrenched it fiercely sideways. A yowl of pain issued from his mouth, and the former Operative casually pulled out his gun and shot him through the kneecap. A tremendous scream ripped from the moustachioed man's mouth, and he clutched his shattered kneecap in agony. He wouldn't be running again anytime soon.

He heard the sound of sirens outside, and cursed. The local law enforcement was imminent. If they found him-if Womack found him-he would be doomed. He had to get out. But-as he raised his head above a table-the drunk was still there, slugging a man in the chest and occasionally firing his gun into the air. He had to be taken out. At this point he almost wished he had federal back-up.

_Almost._

A serving drone had been caught in the conflict, and remained off to one side, sparking quietly. Its CPU was still active, but it could not go about its duties on autopilot-it had to receive new commands. And only the barkeep could do so, with a special audio input device. An idea began to form in his head.

He ran back to the bar, where several patrons were taking advantage of the barkeep's incapacitation and were sampling what was there. He jumped back over the counter, and landed next to a man who was clutching a bottle of rice wine. He gaped. "Wha-"

Kalam slugged him in the face, and broke his nose, sending a gush of blood all over his clothes. Rifling through the barman's clothes, he found it, a small mic with several red buttons. He quickly left, leaving the groaning man to nurse his wound.

He hit the first red button, which activated the drone, and then keyed the mic. "There!" he yelled, pointing at the drunk. "I think that man needs a drink! Immediately!"

He hit the final red button, marked URGENCY.

The drone's small engine flared to life, and careened towards the drunk, arms flailing wildly, intending to serve drinks that it did not have. The man barely had time to swear before it augured into him, the momentum carrying him into three others and smashing several tables. It was a truly amazing climax, and Kalam felt something almost like joy. Joy at a successful gamble, at an outrageous tipping of the odds.

_Is this how Reynolds felt? Defying the Alliance?_

He would dwell on that later. Right now, the way was clear. He made sure that Ken's package was still in his pocket, and then bolted for the door.

Exiting, he made it out onto the street, just in time for several federal agents to round the corner. Well-trained and professional, they would have spotted anyone else. But he had once been an Operative, a deadly hidden hand. He knew how to hide.

Grabbing a hat off a washing line, he pushed it down over his head, folded his arms and leaned against the bar's wall. Keeping his eyes down, he saw in his peripheral vision as the agents entered the bar, sonic rifles and tasers powering up. The men of the _Broken Levee _were in for a bad night.

He smiled, but this quickly faded as he saw the blood all over his clothes. He would have to explain this to the manager. Worst of all, was the fact he had once again been drawn back into conflict. He did not consider himself a man of peace-it was far too late for that-yet he had not meant to hurt anyone. But it had happened nonetheless.

He pulled out the package from Ken, and turned it over. A small string kept it together. Who knew what lay inside? Only time would tell.

Sighing, and rubbing at his arm which had already begun to ache, Kalam made his way back to the inn, limping as he went.


End file.
